


(please don't) let this turn into something it's not

by sorbusaucuparias



Series: these things will never change [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: AU, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Mentions of other characters who don't say anything, Mentions of other ships, Pretty Stydia-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-13
Updated: 2015-09-13
Packaged: 2018-04-20 14:12:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4790240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sorbusaucuparias/pseuds/sorbusaucuparias
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s incredible really.</p><p>Stiles’ face is contorting in ways she’s never seen before, his back is pressed up against one end of the mattress as he tries to push it up and his face is a shade of red that Lydia doesn’t think is actually humanly possible. On the other hand, Scott is gripping the mattress as hard as he can because he knows if he doesn’t, Stiles’ obituary will read ‘crushed by speeding mattress’, but other than that, he seems bored which is definitely a stark difference to Stiles’ current expression. She really can’t be blamed for taking her phone out to send a video to Allison. It’s something that everyone needs to see in her opinion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(please don't) let this turn into something it's not

**Author's Note:**

> completely unbeta'd, almost completely unplanned out and barely edited but I hope you all enjoy it.
> 
> there are also probably a hundred or so mistakes but I kind of powered through the past few days and finished this so this is written by a very sleepy person.
> 
> I want to dedicate this to every wonderful person who's read my fics and who's left comments or kudos or messages in my tumblr inbox; you all keep me writing and I adore you all!
> 
>  
> 
> **A/N (22/6/16): Part 3 is coming soon.**

The word ‘anomaly’ is worth 12 points in Scrabble.

It can refer to multiple occurrences in science.

In terms of orbital mechanics, there’s the Eccentric anomaly, which is an angular parameter that defines the position of a body that is moving along an elliptic Kepler orbit.

In terms of celestial mechanics, there’s the True anomaly, which is an angular parameter that defines the position of a body moving along a Keplerian orbit.

Though, none of that is really important other than to explain how the term ‘anomaly’ can be used to describe occurrences in different forms.

Because, Stiles is Lydia’s anomaly. The deviation from her norm.

It wasn’t in her plans to go to college with a boyfriend, let alone have that boyfriend be Stiles Stilinski, but she does. They hold hands when they walk around campus, play footsie under the desk when they’re studying, go to parties that make her yearn for the ones they used to throw in Beacon Hills. Their entire first year of college is one of the best, and most stressful, years of their life. Everything that happens over the course of the year makes her happy about her anomaly because if it hadn’t happened, if _he_ hadn’t happened, then the entire year would have been different.

She also wouldn’t be in the midst of moving boxes into their new apartment and would probably be spending the scorching hot day at the beach. The only solace she has as the thought occurs to her is that in this life, she gets to watch Stiles and Scott try to carry a mattress up a narrow flight of stairs, which is something she would probably never have gotten a chance to see if she and Stiles never started dating.

It’s incredible really.

Stiles’ face is contorting in ways she’s never seen before, his back is pressed up against one end of the mattress as he tries to push it up and his face is a shade of red that Lydia doesn’t think is actually humanly possible. On the other hand, Scott is gripping the mattress as hard as he can because he knows if he doesn’t, Stiles’ obituary will read ‘crushed by speeding mattress’, but other than that, he seems bored which is definitely a stark difference to Stiles’ current expression. She really can’t be blamed for taking her phone out to send a video to Allison. It’s something that everyone needs to see in her opinion.

Eventually, when they get everything up the stairs and into their apartment, the realization hits her that this isn’t the first time they’ve lived together. They’d been talking about moving in together since New Year’s Eve but not once in that time had either of them ever said anything like “It’s not like we’re not used to sharing the same bathroom”. Not until Scott questions whether they’re ready for this and Stiles responds with that exact statement.

And for some reason, his statement stays with her.

 _“It’s not like we’re not used to sharing the same bathroom”_.

Lydia knows that she wouldn’t be sitting on an armchair, eating take-out and watching Scott and Stiles play video games, if it wasn’t for their parents moving in together after ten months of dating. Stiles is her anomaly but the reason for that, she speculates, is because they were in confined quarters. They saw each other every single day at hours that they otherwise wouldn’t if they weren’t living in the rooms opposite each other. If they hadn’t been, Lydia doesn’t think she would ever have known that Stiles was her anomaly, her deviation from the norm. Or if she had, it would have been years later, when they were away from Beacon Hills, when they no longer carried an air of antagonism toward each other, when they were older and wiser and everything had been forgotten.

All the hypotheticals dance around her head for the rest of the night. The only time they disappear is when she’s grasping onto the sheet underneath her and biting her bottom lip so hard she’s sure she can taste blood because Scott’s in the next room, asleep on their couch, and neither Lydia nor Stiles want to wake him up with their moaning.

It’s becoming increasingly difficult to not let anything out though.

Lydia’s certain that Stiles is trying to slowly write the alphabet with his tongue to get back at her for laughing at him earlier when he said ‘synonym’ instead of ‘cinnamon’ and continuing to laugh while holding out the ‘synonym’ rolls for him to take. She probably shouldn’t have made fun of the (usually) infallible and articulate Stiles Stilinski getting tongue-tied over the word ‘cinnamon’ but she never thought he would react like that. Actually, Lydia’s a little annoyed she didn’t say more if this is his payback.

One of her hands leaves the sheets to grip his hair, twisting the locks in her hand and tugging on them, as he slides two fingers into her and begins trying to write the letter _S_. It’s quickly followed by _T_ then _I_. When he begins the downward motion of _L_ , Lydia realizes he’s stopped trying to write the alphabet and started trying to write his own name. Her fingers tug on the his hair harder, her back arches and she comes, teeth sinking into her bottom lip so hard that she’s positive she can taste blood.

Stiles takes his fingers out, sucking them into his mouth while he gets back on the bed. He’s lying beside her when she finally opens her eyes again, his hand resting across his hips and lazily drawing patterns on her bare skin.

“Normally when I open my eyes, you’re hovering on top of me or offering your fingers to me,” Lydia whispers, even though she’s sure that Scott wouldn’t be woken up by her normal tenor.

“This bed’s fucking heavy,” he replies. His eyebrows raise as he shakes his head against the mattress. “I’m surprised I haven’t passed out from exhaustion yet.”

“And yet, you went down on me.”

“You should know by now that I’m always down for going down.”

Lydia scrunches up her face, turning on her side to look at him while she does. Almost immediately after she sees him wiggle his eyebrows at her, a laugh escapes her and reverberates in the room. The hand on her hip comes up to cup her mouth as she begins to laugh more. Stiles soon follows.

They lie there in _their_ bedroom in _their_ apartment giggling like idiots, with Stiles’ hand covering her mouth and Lydia’s hand covering his mouth, until their need for sleep becomes too strong.

As her eyelids begin to droop and Stiles’ hand wraps around her waist, pulling her back to rest against his front, Lydia knows that it’s going to be the best sleep she’s had in the twelve months.

 

* * *

 

She’s right; it is.

At least until the next night takes that title.

Which is quickly outshined by the _next_ night.

Which is completely outshined by the _next_ night.

And so on.

And so forth.

 

* * *

 

It’s not all good nights though.

Sometimes they fight and go to bed angry. Lydia sleeps in their bed and Stiles sleeps on their couch. Or Stiles sleeps in their bed and Lydia sleeps on their couch. Or they both sleep in their bed but they’re as far apart as they can be without falling off the bed. Or neither of them sleep and keep arguing about little, stupid things that pointless until the sun rises and they collapse together on their bed or their couch and forget about the argument when they wake up.

Sometimes the arguments are bad. Bad enough for expletives to come shining through and doors to be slammed. When those happen, they go for walks together. The fresh air funnily enough clears the air between them. They can breathe and talk and listen and they don’t argue anymore.

Sometimes they fuck away their arguments. Against the wall. On the kitchen floor. On the couch. That one time in the laundry room.

But that’s normal. The honeymoon period can only last for so long and they’re both too stubborn for it to have lasted any longer than it did.

After a while, Lydia stops telling Allison about their arguments.

Sometimes Stiles _just_ leaves his sweaty, putrid socks on the coffee table and makes their apartment uninhabitable.

Sometimes Lydia _just_ leaves the taps on when she’s having a bath and almost floods their bathroom while on the phone to her mom.

Sometimes the arguments that transpire from these events are _just_ meant to be known by her, Stiles and their eavesdropping, elderly neighbour Mrs Davis.

She leaves her conversations with Allison for fun things, for stressful things, for things that aren’t her relationship with Stiles because Allison made it clear from the beginning that living together, regardless of having lived together when they were teenagers, was probably going to be difficult and they needed to have thought it through before they signed a year’s lease on an apartment.

It’s the reason why when Lydia slides her finger across her phone to answer her best friend’s call, she doesn’t even contemplate telling her about the latest incident. The one that involves a bottle of tequila, two feather boas and a dare that Lydia still doesn’t quite understand and quickly transpires into a very naked (besides the feather boa) Stiles running away from a very offended Isaac Lahey (who also has a feather boa) because “ _Burlesque, Lydia! It’s burlesque!_ ” “ _Stop calling it burlesque, Stiles!”_ “ _You’re not my keeper, Lahey! Lydia, take him back to New York!_ ”.

 

* * *

 

Her mom’s dating someone new; a doctor at Beacon Hills Memorial.

Stiles’ dad is dating someone new; he’s less inclined to tell Stiles than Natalie is to tell Lydia.

“You’ll meet her at Christmas,” the Sheriff says, scratching his nose like Lydia and Stiles can’t see him on the laptop screen. “Think of it like your present.”

“Firstly, you can’t give people a person as a present, there are laws against that sort of thing. As the Sheriff of Beacon Hills, I assumed you would know that,” Stiles retorts. He ignores the eye rolls he gets from his father and Lydia before waving his hand in the space in front of him. “ _Also_ , I’ve never waited until Christmas for my present.”

“What?”

“Yeah, you suck at hiding things. Honestly, it’s really disappointing. We’ll never be able to join a Father/Son Hide-n-Seek competition.”

Lydia’s head pops out from the bathroom, toothbrush hanging from her mouth. “Was that high on your bucket list?”

He considers it for a moment. “Definitely in the top 20.”

“You waited to tell me that your mystery girlfriend was _Lydia_ ,” the Sheriff interjects after putting his coffee cup down.

“Because you were trying to live out your seventies sitcom fantasy. We didn’t want to spoil that,” Stiles replies. His hand taps his chin for a moment until he waggles his index finger between the laptop that’s resting on the coffee table and Lydia, who’s leaving the bathroom to join him on the couch. “Wait a second, is Lydia your mystery lady friend? Is that why you’re not telling me? Are you trying to cushion the blow at Christmas by finally giving me the bite of a radioactive spider like I’ve wanted every year since I started reading comic books?”

Sarcasm is practically dripping off Stiles but after sharing a look with the Sheriff, Lydia decides that it’s more fun to play along than roll her eyes. She nods her head, patting Stiles’ thigh as she does. “That’s right, your father and I are having a scandalous affair... Stiles, I’m your new mommy.”

The Sheriff chokes on his coffee and covers his mouth to muffle his chortle. Stiles, on the other hand, quirks his eyebrow before turning his attention to his father. “ _Well_... koo-koo-ka-choo, _Mr_ Robinson.”

Their conversation lasts for any least ten more minutes. Ten minutes in which Stiles continues to try and decipher the real identity of his father’s new girlfriend and Lydia tries to throw Stiles’ fake clues because the Sheriff deserves some privacy. Of course, Lydia’s dying to know who she is but she has the patience to wait until Christmas. Or, that’s what she tells herself.

Then someone knocks on the Sheriff’s office door and he says goodbye to them, leaving them by themselves. They stare at the laptop’s desktop screen for a moment until Stiles tilts his head in her direction.

“You and my dad, huh?”

“Oh yeah. I would have told you but, most of all you've got to hide it from the kids.”

Her laughter fills the apartment momentarily before Stiles is on top of her and her giggle is stifled by his shoulder. He nips at her neck as she playfully bites her shoulder. It’s only when he starts tickling her that she declares war.

In the end, they tear three pillows apart through their actions, break a cup accidentally, and have sex on the couch.

 

* * *

 

There are a number of occasions where Lydia wakes up to find Stiles engaged in an overly animated conversation, at least for that time of the morning, with Scott. He moves from couch to armchair to coffee table to kitchen counter as they talk on the phone. He tries to do it silently but it’s Stiles and every so often, he slips and all Lydia can hear is a mangled yelp that is quickly followed by: “ _Hey! It’s not funny, Scott. I could have been seriously injured. Then I’d lose my chance of becoming_ ” – this part changes every time – “ _the most famous Bigfoot hunter of all time... Why would you laugh at my life’s dream? Do I laugh at your dream of becoming_ ” – again, this changes every time – “ _the next Captain America?_ ”.

Most of the time, Lydia just lays awake and eavesdrops. It’s not hard to decipher what Scott’s responses are to what Stiles is saying and it’s definitely more enjoyable than any of the textbooks she has resting on her nightstand table. Even if it is slightly muffled by the wall that’s separating them.

Tonight’s conversation is incredibly entertaining even if Lydia’s still confused as what sparked it.

“Scott, we can’t watch Frozen together over the phone... It won’t be in sync... Dude, we can’t build a snowman, we live in California... Hell yeah, we can totally build a _sand_ man... _Do you wanna build a sandman_?... _Sandman_... Scotty, you’re so flat, you gotta to work on that.”

Their conversation spirals from comparing singing abilities to who would win on a reality show where they had to eat bugs to deciding on their superhero costumes. It happens so seamlessly that Lydia wants to applaud them but she decides to just stay in bed where it’s warm.

Eventually, the call ends and he tip-toes back to bed. Stiles does his best not to make any sudden movement or sound as he moves closer to her, placing an arm to rest across her hips. A comfortable silence settles in their bedroom, which is the exact moment Lydia’s been waiting for.

“ _Do you wanna build a sandman_?”

Stiles flails, rolls and ends up on his ass on the floor in a matter of seconds, letting out a loud yelp as he does.

Them living together really was such a good idea.

 

* * *

 

“I hate this place,” Stiles whines, stuffing his hands in his pockets and scuffing the floor underneath him with his shoe.

Lydia had left their apartment with her twenty year old boyfriend and entered the store with a petulant toddler.

She stops herself from rolling her eyes. “We’ve been here for ten minutes.”

“Which is five minutes too long. You said you knew what you wanted.”

“I’m browsing.”

“Why can’t we browse a pizza place?”

“Because, Stiles, I don’t think they’ll have the cushions I want,” Lydia answers, a sugary sweet smile gracing her lips.

His eyes narrow momentarily, almost like he’s debating challenging her, before he groans and falls back on one of the display beds. She can’t really blame him for his reaction; the last time they had gone for something, they had spent the majority of the afternoon in there and Lydia had tried to get him to go back the next day as well, which he didn’t.

But she can’t really be blamed _herself_ for telling him they were going to a bar and bringing him here instead, it’s not even the first time she’s pulled that trick. What’s that old adage?

_Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me._

“We don’t need cushions. _No one_ needs cushions. We’re _told_ we need cushions for our couches and sofas and beds to look pretty but really, there’s no need. We’re giving our inanimate objects self-image issues.”

“Do you realize you made a similar spiel on Valentine’s Day?” Lydia asks, cocking her eyebrow as she plays with the cushion in her hand.

Stiles looks up at her, like it _is_ a challenge now, and starts listing off with his fingers. “The first guy was beaten with clubs and beheaded. The second guy was scourged and beheaded. The last guy was a martyr. How does any of that equate to showering the person you love with roses, chocolates, expensive jewellery and over-priced food?”

With a roll of her eyes, Lydia playfully throws the cushion at Stiles. “I respect that, but the real question is: did our waiter _actually_ need to hear that?”

“He was a cog in the Valentine’s Day machine, he needed to _know_ what he was doing.”

“He was bringing us bread, Stiles.”

“He was continuing the myth that there’s something wrong with you if you don’t go all out for the person you love on February 14th.”

“With bread?” Lydia asks incredulously.

“A whole basket of it,” Stiles replies before flinging himself off the bed. He throws his hands in the air when he sticks the landing and triumphantly looks to Lydia once again. All she offers him is a 5, which she thinks is more than generous, but he takes offense to it. “That was, _at least_ , an 8.”

She holds her hand out for him to take. He does, twining their fingers together as they start walking. “When you managed to _not_ knock yourself unconscious after jumping off that fence with Scott and Isaac, _that_ was an 8.”

A grin spreads across his lips like he’s remembering the memory. While he’s replaying it, Lydia takes the chance to pick up the pillow she’s been eyeing since they first arrived.

 

* * *

 

Stiles won’t admit it but he actually really likes the all new pillows they end up buying.

He still won’t willingly go back to that store though. It’s like entering a whole new dimension where time ceases to be a thing.

But he likes the pillows and that’s good enough for Lydia.

 

* * *

 

They have a bet going.

Actually, they have many bets going. They keep them written on post-it notes in their desk drawer. The bets range from ones that would be strange if anyone found them – _Stiles bets Lydia that Scott will tell him weird sex things from his relationship with Allison before Allison tells Lydia_ – to mundane – _Lydia bets Stiles that he won’t remember the milk_ (and he _never_ does) – to hopeful.

The one that’s currently going is the hopeful one.

It all started when Malia decided that she didn’t like what she was doing at college. The winter break of freshman year, she showed up at Lydia’s door, before she and Stiles lived together, with a bag full of books and a caffeine buzz that didn’t diminish for thirteen hours. She wanted Lydia’s help to plan her next move because, in her own words, “ _everyone else is stupid and you’ve known what you wanted to do since you were in your mom’s uterus_ ”.

So, for a few days, Malia had occupied what little floor space Lydia had and they had discussed it ad nauseam. At least until one morning when Lydia woke up and Malia wasn’t on her floor anymore. Lydia had used every platform of communication, even going so far as to ask Stiles if he knew where to find carrier-pigeons, before finally getting a video call from Malia two days later. She was in New York with Kira and Isaac, acting completely oblivious to Lydia’s annoyance.

Honestly, _that’s_ when Lydia and Stiles started their bet.

_Lydia bets Stiles that Malia and Kira will get together before Halloween in Kira’s sophomore year._

_Stiles bets Lydia that Malia and Kira will get together on New Year’s Eve in Kira’s sophomore year_.

Malia, Kira and Isaac had gotten a tiny apartment, so tiny that it could comfortably fit inside Stiles and Lydia’s apartment, sometime during summer break before sophomore year began. There were definitely a few jokes made about the arrangement early on, Lydia and Stiles were responsible for most of them and they were usually about making sure Mr Roper didn’t catch them in compromising positions, but the arrangement ended up being great.

Especially when Malia called Lydia early one morning to say that she and Kira had slept together after going to a party and had decided to start dating each other. That happened a week before Halloween, much to Stiles’ chagrin.

(“You couldn’t wait until the ball dropped?” Stiles had said after taking the phone from Lydia. “Seriously, two more months of unresolved sexual tension wouldn’t have killed you.”

“Thank you, Stiles,” Malia had sarcastically replied. “Your support and congratulations during this time mean the world to me.”

“Congratulations, I love you, and you’ve left me at the ruthlessness of my girlfriend.”

“Always happy to help, buddy.”)

Which is why Stiles is currently standing beside her, one arm wrapped around her waist, while in a pink bunny costume. His face had contorted so beautifully when she showed him that she bought it immediately.

It’s more for her benefit than anything else. She likes watching him argue with people while dressed like a bunny. Her own bunny-eared lawyer in the making. Lydia’s even taken a few photos, ones that she can frame in their apartments, ones that she can send the Sheriff, ones that she’s sent to their friends. Like an admirable loser, Stiles has accepted it and posed for many of them, trying to look as idiotic as possible to ensure that everyone gets the full effect that they’re missing.

Lydia also really likes it because underneath, she knows that he’s only wearing his boxers and all it’ll take to get him out of the costume is to pull down the zipper. He’s her Christmas present on Halloween. Her anomaly dressed as a pink bunny rabbit whose heart-adorned boxers (Lydia’s choice also) are for her eyes only.

She feels like she should be commended for making it into their apartment before pressing herself against him. There’s so much weirdness to the situation because she’s in a mermaid costume and she’s making out with Stiles in his fluffy, pink bunny rabbit costume with additional cotton-tail; it’s something she wishes she had a picture of.

But that weirdness disappears when Lydia finally makes use of his zipper and Stiles practically rips off the costume of the tail. He doesn’t touch her shell bra, even swats her hand away when she tries to remove it. As much as she hates couples costumes, she does wonder what it would have been like if she had chosen to give him the Eric costume that was paired with her Little Mermaid one. The wondering stops when she remembers the week after he found out what her grandmother used to call her and subsequently wouldn’t stop singing songs from the movie. Or really, it stops when she pushes him onto their bed, starts to straddle his hips but is instead pulled up to sit on his face.

“You know the rules of our bets,” Stiles says, his hands resting on her ass.

“Loser does whatever the winner wants,” she sighs before moving herself back slightly to look at him. “I don’t remember saying I wanted this though.”

“Do you want me to stop?”

“God, no.”

As her hands brace their bed’s headboard, she remembers one of the first bets they ever made.

 _Stiles bets that Lydia will be the one who breaks their headboard_.

 

* * *

 

Lydia breaks their headboard.

Stupid, cheap wood that could have broken just as easily if anyone else was gripping it like she was; it’s not fair.

What does Stiles want in return?

One full night of watching Star Wars with no commentary about how scientifically inaccurate the series is.

It turns out to be one of the hardest nights of her life.

 

* * *

 

Five months.

That’s how long they’ve been living together.

 _Five_ months.

Scott and Danny are out of the bet that’s going on within their circle of friends now. It’s a bet that no one will tell Lydia and Stiles about but it doesn’t take a genius to figure it out.

Also, Isaac completely caves when Lydia interrogates him during their totally not-weekly (but yes, _weekly_ ) coffee date over the phone.

 

* * *

 

Lydia and Stiles are going back to Beacon Hills for Winter Break.

She’s planned out almost every detail of their trip to ensure that they spend an equal amount of time with her mother and his father. Of course, Stiles has to throw a wrench into her plans by questioning when exactly they’ll get around to seeing the friends that they usually only see online or through video calls. After that, Lydia practically throws out her plans, leaving it up to spontaneity.

Someone’s definitely going to be forgotten, Lydia can feel it. Stiles doesn’t share that belief.

“Christmas miracles, Lyds,” Stiles says as he flips his grilled cheese.

“Okay, Tiny Tim.”

She doesn’t look away from her laptop screen until Stiles’ starts waving his spatula in the space in front of her face with an expression of faux annoyance on his face. “You and I both know I’m anything but _tiny_.”

Lydia wants to disagree but he’s only in his boxers and her eyes wander down to them. He’s right, which is something she’s never _eager_ to admit, but this time he is.

Her eyebrow quirks as her gaze returns to him. “Want to prove it?”

The grilled cheese gets cold.

Their new headboard gets tested out.

 

* * *

 

There are nights when they fall asleep curled up in each other. They like the security that comes from knowing the other is in their grasp. Those are the nights when everything’s good, when they’re not stressed about assessments or in a fight, and are her favorite nights of all.

But there are nights when they’re still mad at each other. Those ones when they either sleep separately or out of reach from the other. Lydia doesn’t sleep well those nights, she’s constantly terrified that she’ll roll over and he won’t be there. They’ve never had an argument that’s been bad enough for either of them to leave the apartment alone but she feels like that’s coming. They’ve slammed doors before, questioned whether one of them should pack a bag and stay somewhere else for the night, but they’ve never actually left their apartment.

Not yet anyway.

There are also the nights when they sleep where they drop. The nights where they’ve got assessments to finish or tests to study for or they’re exhausted from work. They don’t even bother to change out of the clothes they were wearing that day, they just fall asleep on a flat surface. Comfort only comes into question when they wake up with a crick in their neck or the imprint of their keyboard on their cheek. Lydia doesn’t like those nights.

That night, however, is one of the good ones. Lydia’s using Stiles’ chest as a pillow, her body’s curled into his, and their breathing is synchronized and the only sound that can be heard in their apartment.

Or _is_ until Stiles’ phone starts ringing, waking Lydia up as it does.

“Stiles, your phone,” Lydia utters, her hand moving to his chest to shake him awake.

His eyes flutter open momentarily before his arm wraps around her tighter, bringing her closer to him. “That’s great, baby.”

He’s surprisingly strong when half-asleep. Still, Lydia uses her free hand to continue to try and shake him awake. “Your phone is _ringing._ ”

“I’m glad.”

“Stiles!” There’s a little extra force in her shake and she ends up swatting him harder than she intended to. That jolts him awake. He’s still groggy but his eyes are open. “It’s 1:47 in the morning. Tell whoever’s on the phone to go to hell.”

He nods his head while stretching over to his nightstand to grab his phone. His other arm stays around Lydia, keeping her curled against his body, as he finally answers the phone and stops it’s annoying, resonating ring.

“It’s 1:47 in the morning. Go to...” Stiles trails off. His body leaves its relaxed stance as he sits up. The sudden movement sends Lydia rolling off to the edge of the bed but she catches herself before she falls off it. “Yes, that’s me... Yes... Yes... What are you... _What_?”

And his tone breaks her heart.

That’s not a tone that he usually takes with Scott.

But, it’s not Scott.

Scott has a personalized ringtone.

 

* * *

 

“Transmediastinal gunshot wound.”

Three words Stiles mutters over and over as he and Lydia throw clothes into a bag and lock up their apartment. It’s all he says from their bedroom to the hallway to the Jeep that’s parked downstairs.

Actually, there’s a fourth word and it breaks her heart every time it falls from his lips.

“Dad.”

 

* * *

 

Lydia only parks the Jeep twice during their hurried drive to Beacon Hills.

The first time is to let Stiles out so he can throw up. It’s when the worry and anxiety get to be too much and he has a physical reaction to it. Lydia’s out almost immediately after him to try and offer some help. He doesn’t need any, though. Once he’s finished throwing up, he stumbles back to the Jeep and pretends it never happened.

The second time is so Stiles can pee. They’re only twenty minutes from Beacon Hills but Lydia’s certain that he’s needed to go since they left their apartment and she doesn’t want him to damage his bladder. Him being admitted to hospital as well wasn’t high on her list of hopes and dreams right now. She’s unwavering in her desire for him to ease his situation, keeping them parked at the gas station until he finally throws his hands up in exasperation and runs to the bathroom.

It hadn’t been for him, though.

While yes, Lydia did want to ensure that his bladder didn’t rupture, Stiles would have been okay if she continued driving. Lydia’s well aware of how long it takes for a bladder to burst and she’s certain they would have made it to the hospital in one piece.

It’s the time that it takes for him to go that she needs.

She needs that time to search those three words on her phone and gain some understanding of what happened to the Sheriff. Stiles hasn’t been able to say anything but she can hypothesize.

_Transmediastinal gunshot wound: a penetrating injury to a person's thorax in which a bullet enters the mediastinum, possibly damaging some of the major structures in this area._

Lydia can barely restrain her shakiness as she slides her phone back in her bag and grips the steering wheel until her knuckles turn white. If Stiles notices when he gets back in the passenger side, he doesn’t say anything.

 

* * *

 

“He’s going to be okay,” Deputy Parrish states when Stiles and Lydia burst into Beacon Hills Memorial’s waiting room.

They don’t believe him. There’s no M.D. attached to his name so how can they believe him? There’s nothing about his general body language that screams that the Sheriff will be okay. The pit in Lydia’s stomach is rapidly growing and she can’t even fathom how Stiles is feeling.

Normally, she can look at him and just _know_ without having to rely on verbal confirmation. But as Lydia watches him try to get the attention of one of the nurses, she can hardly recognize him.

 

* * *

 

“He will be okay, Stiles,” Melissa assures.

“But...”

“He will.”

Even though her guarantee seems to ease him, Stiles’ foot still bounces on the floor as they wait for the Sheriff to get out of surgery. Lydia reaches over and covers his hand, the one resting on his restless leg. He freezes instantly, turning his head to stare at her. There’s tears welling in his eyes, her throat dries at the sight but she doesn’t let it show. She loves the Sheriff and she’s terrified that something’s going to go wrong yet she knows that Stiles needs her. He needs her to be the strong one, the clear-headed one, the one in the shining armour. Lydia knows she can do all of that while letting her emotions show, letting her own tears well in her eyes and roll down her cheeks, but she decides against it. He needs her like she needed him after her dad told her he wouldn’t be at graduation, during their pregnancy scare, when she thought her grandmother was going to die.

So, Lydia gives him a small smile, her thumb starting to trace soft circles on his hand. “Your dad’s tough. The toughest guy I know.”

She doesn’t promise that he’ll be okay, she can’t give Stiles that sort of false hope.

But, _God_ , does she want to. Just like everyone else had.

Lydia wants nothing more than to tell Stiles that the Sheriff will survive and have it be true.

 

* * *

 

Here are some things that Lydia learns during her trip around the hospital while Stiles sits by his father’s side and waits for him to wake up:

One: The person the Sheriff is dating is Melissa McCall.

Lydia doesn’t even find out from Melissa herself. It’s through talking to one of the nurses on night-shift. She asks Lydia why she’s here and after Lydia explains, the woman tells her all sorts of things. Apparently, the Sheriff arrived at the hospital to pick Melissa up for their first date. He even brought her a bouquet of flowers.

Two: The best coffee machine is near the emergency room and needs to be hit twice before it works perfectly.

Again, it’s information given to her by one of the nurses.

Three: Babies are adorable when they yawn.

It’s something that she’s always been aware of but standing in front of the glass, looking at all of the new arrivals to the world, Lydia’s reminded of that fact. She’s also reminded that she and Stiles almost could have had faced the possibility of one of those if the test had been positive and the Sheriff would have had a grandchild who he’d spoil.

Now, though, there’s a chance that if Lydia and Stiles ever decide to reproduce or Stiles has a child that isn’t also hers, that child will never know their grandfather. The thought makes Lydia sick to her stomach, gripping the coffee cup in her hand tight enough that it breaks and slips on the floor.

“ _Shit_.”

“Language, Lydia,” he chastises.

How weird is it that, of all the people she has ever known and all the voices, Isaac Lahey’s seems to alleviate the sick feeling that’s settling in her stomach?

Lydia turns to see him standing in the middle of the hallway, one hand in his jacket pocket and the other running through his hair, smiling at her with that smile she only ever saw when they were alone.

“There are children present,” Isaac continues. “That kind of language is--”

He doesn’t get a chance to finish his sentence as she’s walked over to him and wrapped her arms around him. Allison’s her best friend, Lydia would do anything for her, but Isaac still holds the title of her ‘Dragon’. There’s something weirdly comforting about their friendship that neither of them have ever been able to understand. They were only supposed to be distractions for each other but since Lydia and Stiles started dating and Isaac’s feelings for Allison subsided enough for him _not_ to need a distraction, they’ve been incredibly close friends.

“What are you doing here?”

“I was already here for the anniversary of... _you know_.”

Lydia still has no idea how his mother passed away but she’s never questioned it. She nods her head. “But how did you know about--”

“Scott,” Isaac answers as Lydia slowly removes herself from their hug. “He called and asked if I could be with you and Stiles while he makes his way here. Allison’s coming too.”

That’s all it takes for Lydia to finally cry.

 

* * *

 

When the Sheriff opens his eyes, he’s welcomed by a frantic Lydia and Stiles, who jump from their chairs, and a room filled with balloons, flowers and a teddy bear dressed as a police officer.

 

* * *

 

They decide to stay in Beacon Hills for an extra three days after the Sheriff’s released despite his objections.

“I have Melissa.”

“Ah _yes_ ,” Stiles says as he helps his father out of the car. “Your _mystery_ lady. Mysterious Melissa McCall; nice alliteration you got there, Pops.”

“That _is_ the only reason I started a relationship with her.”

“Told you so, Lyds.”

Lydia shares a look with the Sheriff before walking past them. “Similar words did fall from his lips.”

A self-satisfied smirk tugs the corners of Stiles’ lips up. “I gotta ask, Dad, because this is becoming a pattern for you, are you only attracted to the mothers of my friends? Lydia’s mom, Scott’s mom... Who’s next? Are you checking out Mrs Argent? Oh my God, is that how you got shot? Chris Argent doesn’t like competition?”

The Sheriff glances away from his son to Lydia, who’s unlocking the front door. “Are you sure you can’t force _him_ to go back? He may be impervious to my influence but I’m sure you have your ways.”

Lydia smirks as she pushes the door open. “I do.”

“Nope, not happening,” Stiles states, waggling his finger in Lydia’s direction. “Don’t take his side.”

“What about a bribe?” the Sheriff asks.

“You couldn’t meet my price.”

“Extortion?”

Stiles’ eyes leave his father and settle on Lydia. His father may not have anything on him but Lydia does. He shakes his head while Lydia drops the Sheriff’s bag on the table. “You’ve got nothing on me.”

And that’s that.

Lydia and Stiles spend the next few days making sure that the Sheriff has everything he needs when they leave. They’re only going for a fortnight because they have papers due and jobs. But once those two weeks are over, Winter break begins and they’ll be right back in Beacon Hills, coddling the Sheriff in spite of his objections.

Melissa comes over each night. Scott, Allison and Isaac as well, even though they should be back at their respective colleges, finishing what they need to before break starts.

It’s nice.

It’s warm.

It’s the other adjectives that Lydia can’t quite place her finger on. Adjectives that express the feelings emerging in her.

 

* * *

 

Lydia does eventually find a name for it.

She’s sitting next to Allison, trying to contain her laughter, as Stiles flails his arms around to give his team the clue for his answer. Stiles is turning a shade of red that Lydia’s never actually seen another human being display and the Sheriff, Scott and Isaac are just staring between each other, staring at the females in the room, staring at Stiles’, and the three of them have no idea.

Weirdly enough, the entire ordeal makes her realize what it is.

This feels like a _family_.

 

* * *

 

The first night they’re back in their apartment Stiles wakes them up screaming. He reaches for anything tactile that he can hold on to while his legs kick off the blanket that’s resting on them.

Her brain tries to remember everything she’s read about night terrors. This isn’t the first one he’s ever had but it’s not a regular occurrence. It’s only when something incredibly awful happens, something which shakes him to the core; his father getting shot on the job definitely qualifies as ‘something incredibly awful’. Stiles had them a lot when he was a kid, while his mother was in the hospital and after her death, but she had only seen it once since he entered high school. To say that it scared the hell out of her mom and her would be an understatement. They hadn’t ever expected to wake up to terrified screaming in their house, which was why Lydia used the following day to read everything she could about the subject.

Stiles actually screams himself awake.

He’s sweating, gasping for breath and staring at her with a mixture of confusion and fear. Lydia tries to reach for him but he recoils from her reach like even the thought of her touching him burns his skin.

“Stiles?”

He doesn’t say anything. He gets off the bed, reaching for his hoodie and phone, before leaving their bedroom. It takes her a moment to process everything, the constant banging on the wall from their next door neighbour adding to her disorientation. Lydia’s eyes are still on the open door of the room, waiting for him to come back in.

The front door slams shut.

That sound breaks her reverie. Lydia’s pushing herself off their bed and hurtling toward the door before she can even think about it. Her heart feels like it’s in her throat as she pulls the door open and stumbles into the dimly lit hallway of their apartment building.

“Stiles!”

 

* * *

 

**To: Stiles Stilinski                     Today 2:01 am**

**Stiles?**

**To: Stiles Stilinski                     Today 2:30 am**

**Stiles?**

**To: Stiles Stilinski                     Today 3:46 am**

**Call me.**

**To: Stiles Stilinski                     Today 3:47 am**

**Please.**

**To: Stiles Stilinski                     Today 4:51 am**

**I wandered around the block in my pyjamas four times. You didn’t take your wallet or keys, so how far could you have gotten? Please tell me you’re not walking around in your boxers, freezing your ass off in the process. I like your ass. Please don’t freeze it.**

**To: Stiles Stilinski                     Today 9:19 am**

**I’ll take an eggplant emoji at this point.**

**To: Stiles Stilinski                     Today 12:33 pm**

**Would it be dramatic if I filed a missing person’s report?**

**From: Stiles Stilinski     Today 12:33 pm  
**

_**Yes.** _

**To: Stiles Stilinski                     Today 12:34 pm**

**So that’s what it takes to get your attention.**

**From: Stiles Stilinski     Today 12:35 pm**

**_I’ve been asleep._ **

**To: Stiles Stilinski                     Today 12:35 pm**

**I’m calling bullshit on that.**

**From: Stiles Stilinski     Today 12:40 pm**

**_Good call._ **

**To: Stiles Stilinski                     Today 12:41 pm**

**Did you not get my messages?**

**From: Stiles Stilinski     Today 12:42 pm**

**_I thought about sending you an eggplant emoji._ **

**From: Stiles Stilinski     Today 12:42 pm**

**_You were being sarcastic about that, right?_ **

**To: Stiles Stilinski                     Today 12:43 pm**

**Yes, you idiot.**

**From: Stiles Stilinski     Today 12:45 pm**

**_Lyds, I’m okay. I promise._ **

**From: Stiles Stilinski     Today 12:45 pm**

**_I need some time by myself._ **

**From: Stiles Stilinski     Today 12:51 pm**

**_I love you._ **

 

* * *

 

Lydia doesn’t see him for five days.

They text. She waits for him to start the conversation.

They talk on the phone. Again, she waits for him to make the first move.

It breaks her heart to come home to an empty apartment.

No amount of texting or phone calls can change that.

 

* * *

 

It does cross her mind that this is some sort of way to ease her into a breakup. That’s the reason she has to brace herself before she lets herself into their apartment, like she’s worried that all of his stuff will be gone when she walks in.

She really couldn’t have braced herself for what she walked into on the sixth day.

The first thought when she sees it definitely shouldn’t be ‘ _this many candles is a definite fire hazard_ ’; she _knows_ that it shouldn’t be. But that’s all that pops into her mind when she sees what has to be a hundred candles scattered around their apartment and Stiles kneeling in the middle of the living room with a velvet box in his hands.

Who even needs that many candles? Obviously it’s to set the mood but the temperature is ridiculous and Lydia can’t believe that Stiles actually went around and lit this many candles.

He might not have done it by himself. If he was planning this, he probably told Scott so they could go over details and make sure it was a night that none of them ever forgot. Maybe Scott came around to help to set the mood.

There’s just so many candles.

And no roses or flowers of any kind.

_Maybe focus on Stiles and the box in his hands, Lydia._

Her gaze falls on Stiles; his smile, his adoring eyes, his hands on a velvet box that she’s still hoping has earrings in it.

“Lydia Martin, you are the love of my life. Everything you do astounds me. I don’t know what I would have done without you when my dad got hurt. You have so much strength and you infect us with it-- Okay, I don’t think anyone’s ever used the word ‘infect’ in a proposal before but it was meant to be romantic. Did you get the romantic-ness of it?” Stiles asks, flustered and with shaky breath. All she can do is nod, closing their front door with her foot as quietly and quickly as she can. Her nod seems to spur him on. “Right, okay, so... I was so scared when everything happened with my dad and I was still scared when we got back here. It’s so easy to lose someone that you love, it can happen in the blink of an eye. Which is why, Lydia Martin, I am asking you: will you marry me?”

It’s not like she hadn’t already realized where this was going. But hearing those two words – “ _marry me_ ” – seemed to make it all the more real.

She loves him.

She does.

There’s mornings when she wakes up in his arms and feels this serene content wash over her. He’s her lighthouse in murky waters.

She loves him more than she could ever comprehend.

But...

That ‘but’ is the problem.

That ‘but’ hangs over their entire relationship in flashing neon lights.

“You’re asking me to marry you because you’re scared?” Lydia asks, slowly, barely above a whisper, as she drops her bag and books on the floor carelessly.

To say he’s surprised that her response is a question is an understatement. “ _What_?”

“You are, you’re asking me to marry you because you’re scared.”

“That’s not what’s happening.”

Lydia runs her fingers through her hair before throwing them up in exasperation. “ _Yes_ , it is. You’re scared. You almost lost your father. You’re grasping for any kind of stability that you can and I can be that stability but you can’t ask me to marry you, Stiles.”

A silence settles in their apartment.

It’s actually nauseating.

That, in addition to the heat coming from the hundred or so candles scattered around their apartment, seems to be actually causing bile to rise in her throat. Or maybe it’s because of Stiles’ ever changing facial expressions, the ones that shift everything except for the look in his eyes. That look could be the real cause behind the nauseous feeling settling in the pit of her stomach; he looks like she kicked him in the throat.

She can’t stay still. If she stays still, there’s a high likelihood she might throw up and that’s one of the last things that should happen during what has to be one of the worst nights of her life. Really, this is high on that list next to waking up to find out the Sheriff was shot and her parents telling her about their impending divorce.

Which is why Lydia decides to move around the room and rid them of one of the factors adding to her nausea. Who needs that many candles anyway?

Stiles stays staring at the empty space where she had previously stood while Lydia blows and fans out as many candles as she can. She’s near the kitchen, wondering if Stiles actually thought about what all these candles could do to the fire alarm, when he stands and turns on his heels to face her.

“Can you stop blowing out my candles?”

“No.”

She can’t even look at him. At least not until she’s gotten rid of most of the candles.

“Lydia!” Stiles says a little louder, taking a step toward her. “Quit blowing out my candles.”

“No,” she replies as she turns to face him. “Stiles, I already feel like I'm in the lesser known tenth circle of Hell. I don't need the temperature to represent it.”

Even though it seems like there’s a retort on the tip of his tongue, Stiles just nods his head and helps her blow out the candles. There’s no way it should take as long as it does but Lydia knows why they’re doing it at the speed they are; they’re trying to delay the inevitable conversation that’s about to take place.

Stiles proposed to her.

Lydia said no.

So where do they go from there?

Option one: they break up. They separate their CD collection, their DVDs, their furniture. They decide who keeps the apartment (Stiles will say Lydia should but she broke his heart and hers in the process so really, he should keep it. Then again, neither of them would really want to keep living there and constantly be reminded of what happened.) They’ll tell their friends, change their relationship status, fall into a break up depression before finally moving on. They’ll probably see each other at parties, make small talk, maybe even pretend that there wasn’t a time when they knew everything about each other until they can finally be in the same room without feeling sick.

Option two: they talk about it. They spend hours talking about it. They reach an understanding about why she said no. They talk to someone else if they have to. Counsellors are good, especially when problems first arise, and sure, they’re only twenty but Lydia would rather exhaust every option than break up with someone she could love forever.

Option three: she turns around and says that she was joking. They get married young or wait until they’ve both graduated and have jobs. They settle down somewhere. Lydia gets pregnant unexpectedly. Stiles starts working more so they have enough money to raise their child. Lydia has the child. They love it because it’s their child and it’s as perfect as perfect can be. Lydia gets pregnant again. Another unexpected pregnancy and Lydia has barely been back to work for longer than a month. Maybe she and Stiles end up resenting each other, maybe they don’t. Maybe they stay together until their deaths or maybe they get divorced. There’s a lot maybes with that option.

Option four: they can ignore it. They can pretend it never happened. It’s the unhealthiest option of the four, even including getting engaged just to get rid of the palpable tension that’s settled in the apartment. It shouldn’t even be an option but when she sits down on the couch with Stiles, it’s all she wants to do.

But it’s unhealthy.

Very unhealthy.

So, she decides to mix it with option two. _Slightly_.

“I love you,” Lydia states, breaking the silence that’s settled between them. She turns herself to face him even though he’s still staring into the space in front of him. “I really do, Stiles. Can we just pretend like this didn’t happen?”

Finally, he meets her gaze. “What?”

“I don’t want this to be the thing that breaks us.”

“Me proposing to you?”

“This can’t be the story we tell. I don’t want to say that you got scared and decided to carpe diem.”

“What’s wrong with that?” he asks so earnestly that she feels her heart break a little. “What’s wrong with me realizing that life’s short and I don’t want to spend any more time not being married to you?”

Lydia stands up, swallowing the bile that’s begun rising in her throat again as she does. “Stiles, you’re acting without an appropriate amount of deliberation. You’ve been gone for almost a week, I had no idea where you were or what you were doing and you come back like this? Can you tell me that you’ve been planning this for longer than the past week? If you can, then maybe this proposal deserves more deliberation from me.”

He stays silent, eyes boring holes into her while Lydia inhales as deeply as possible in an attempt to calm herself. None of her questions were supposed to be hypothetical but Stiles doesn’t seem like he wanted to say anything and she can’t blame him.

Option four is looking really good right now.

She ignores that thought as she runs a hand through her hair. “You said it yourself, Stiles; this whole thing happened because of your feelings over almost losing your dad. So, you’re choosing short-term gains over long-term ones. You wanted me to say yes because you don’t want to be scared anymore. I know that you love me but being scared was the motivation behind all of this _technically_ impulsive action. Am I right?”

Stiles finally moves. He brings a hand up to rub his jaw before letting out the most half-hearted laugh she thinks she’s ever heard from him. “With a cross-examination skill like that, maybe you should be the one studying to be a lawyer.”

“Stiles...”

“No, you got me, Lyds. You really hit the nail on the head,” he replies, raising his hands in what seems like a sign of surrender. Stiles pushes himself off the couch and walks past her to the door. “I’m going to go for a walk.”

She should stop him.

But she doesn’t.

 

* * *

 

Lydia’s been laying in their bed for the past two hours. She can’t fall asleep and she can’t stop crying, which is a combination that’s done nothing but give her a throbbing headache.

When the front door creaks open, she actually holds her breath for a moment. This could be the moment where it’s over between them officially. It’ll break her heart, shatter it into pieces that won’t ever fit together comfortably again, but maybe it’ll be for the best.

Stiles doesn’t say anything when he walks in their bedroom. He kicks off his shoes, takes off his pants and hoodie before settling into the empty space behind her.

“I don’t want this to be the thing that breaks us either,” Stiles states, his arm coming to rest over her hip as he does.

Nothing but a shaky exhale leaves her, nodding her head against her pillow without turning to look at him. She moves herself back against him, covering his arm with hers, and listens to the sounds of their breathing.

“I love you, Stiles.”

“I love you too.”

 

* * *

 

They don’t want it to be the thing that breaks them.

They try to make it not be the thing that breaks them.

It is though.

They’re not the same couple anymore.

Stiles stays late at the library, at his study group, at work.

Lydia stays late at the library, at the lab, at work.

They talk on the phone sometimes. Mostly texts. Monosyllabic at times. Emojis at others.

It’s just a rough patch.

They’ll get over it.

Stiles is Lydia’s anomaly.

 

* * *

 

Last Christmas, they spent half of their time at Natalie’s and half of their time at the Sheriff’s. This Christmas, wordlessly they’ve decided that Lydia will be with her parent and Stiles will be with his unless the other’s parent asks where they are.

It’s apparently the first question out of the Sheriff’s mouth.

Which is why Lydia finds herself sitting next to Stiles at the Stilinski dinner table. She’s sitting opposite Scott, who keeps alternating between looking at her like she kicked his puppy and looking like he kicked hers. Any doubt that she had about whether Scott was in on the proposal plans is wiped away with those looks. Now, all Lydia wants is to call Allison and ask if she knew as well.

Lydia didn’t tell anyone about it. She didn’t want it to become a big thing but now, Lydia’s really starting to think there’s a chance everyone in their circle has some idea. It makes her nauseous feeling, the one that’s been reoccurring on almost a daily basis since that night, jump up a notch. The queasiness makes it impossible to eat anything or drink anything except water so Lydia moves the food on her plate around more than anything else.

They get through the dinner with minimal discussion about what’s happening on their end. The conversations tend to steer more toward the Sheriff (his recovery, whether he’ll go back to work soon, if they’ve caught the guy responsible), Melissa (how she is, how her work is, any interesting medical cases, whether she’s saved anyone’s life in the past few weeks since they’ve spoken in person) and Scott (how college is, how he is, if he still wants to be a veterinarian, what he finds easier in sophomore year and what’s harder). Lydia and Stiles have almost the same responses whenever they’re asked questions, which makes it seem like they practiced beforehand but it’s just luck.

It’s right around dessert that the shit hits the fan.

Only for Lydia and Stiles though.

And as awful as it is, Lydia’s kind of wishing that it happened a few months later instead of less than two weeks after she said no to Stiles.

“Melissa and I are getting married!” the Sheriff exclaims and it’s clear that he couldn’t keep it in any longer.

Melissa’s blushing. The Sheriff’s blushing. They’re both wearing identical, cheek-stretching grins as they push away from the table to hug their kids.

Lydia’s never wanted to be anyone more than she does in that moment. She watches Stiles and Scott hug their parents, the picture of a perfect family, and it breaks her heart because she’s not part of this family anymore. Not in the ways that it counts.

“When did this happen?” Scott asks as he hugs his mother.

If it’s possible, Melissa’s grin actually widens. “A week ago. We were doing the daily walk that he hates but has to do and he asked me.”

“Nice work, dad,” Stiles says, patting his father on the shoulder as lightly as he can before his attention turns to Lydia. He doesn’t say anything, just motions for her to join the congratulations.

She has to.

She can’t dampen this memory for them.

So Lydia hugs them both, gushes over the engagement ring Melissa wears around her neck and asks the question that she and the boys have been dying to know. “When are you two going to get married?”

Melissa and the Sheriff share a look before the Sheriff wraps his arm around her waist and pulls him close to her. A sheepish expression momentarily crosses his face before he clears his throat. “February 15th.”

Eyebrows rise but Stiles is the first one to vocalize the surprise. “February 15th? The day _after_ Valentine’s day?”

“Galileo’s birthday?” Scott asks before shrugging his shoulder when Lydia and Stiles glance over at him. “Look it up.”

“There was a cancellation at the church,” Melissa interjects, raising her hands up in the air. “We weren’t expecting to get a date so soon but when we went there, we were told about the date and decided ‘ _what the hell?_ ’”

There’s more talks about the plans that they’ve already made; where the reception will be held, whether it’ll be big or small, Stiles is going to be the best man, Scott’s the man of honour, living arrangements after they’re married. Every so often, Lydia catches Stiles staring at her, watching her with this curiosity and anguish that she understands without having to ask about.

They didn’t want it to break them but it did.

It’s all she can think about as she walks to her car, Stiles trailing behind her even though he doesn’t have to. February 15th will be when it happens, when they finally admit they’re having problems, when they stop pretending like they can go back to how it was. Until then, _ignoring_ is bliss or, at the very least, less heartbreaking.

“Can I come over later?”

Lydia halts, key halfway in the lock, and turns her head in his direction. “Of course.”

Then he gives her the softest, briefest, most platonic kiss before walking back into the house. Lydia stares blankly in that direction for what could be minutes, mentally debating whether it would have been less weird if he had shaken her hand goodbye instead.

It would have.

 

* * *

 

Halfway home, Lydia pulls her car over to the side of the road and throws up.

It’s around about then that a thought hits her and knocks all the air from her lungs.

 

* * *

 

She comforts herself with the knowledge of other ailments that have the same symptoms. She rattles them off like a mantra.

At least until she's in the aisle of a grocery store two towns over, staring at her choices, and realizing that no matter what she does or how she tries to distract herself, there's a very real possibility that she might actually be pregnant.

It's a cruel, cosmic joke, isn’t it?

For this to happen while she and Stiles are actively avoiding each other?

Sure, they sleep in the same bed, share the same bathroom and use the same Netflix account but they don't look at each other or talk to each other like they used to. They don’t even keep up the pretence of being okay anymore.

That’s because they're not okay.

They're broken.

Each of them is just waiting for the other to turn and say “we're having problems”.

But neither of them can.

And Lydia's sitting on the closed lid of the toilet in her old ensuite, waiting for the timer on her phone to go off, because there's a very real possibility that a plastic stick that she's peed on could break them even further.

She knows that's what would happen. Lydia doesn't have to rely on statistics and probability because she's certain that a baby would not be great at this juncture of their lives. It'd be like Stiles coming home with a lion but calling it a dog and acting like it doesn't have the ability to completely kill them. In that case, it wouldn't be the death of their relationship and would actually be the death of them as human beings but the thought still has legs... she thinks.

Here's the real kicker.

They _have_ talked about it before. It isn’t her first pregnancy scare with Stiles. It was one a month or so after graduation and the first person Lydia told was Stiles. He held her hand as they walked up the aisle and picked out a pregnancy test and during the time spent waiting for an answer, they talked about Lydia's choices – “ _You get that it's your body, right? If you want to keep it, I'll be right next to you the entire way. If you want to get an abortion, I promise I won't pull a Damone on you_.” – and then it had turned out to be negative. She had him, though. Stiles was next to her the entire time and she never had to worry that he wouldn't be.

Lydia knows she doesn't have to worry about it now either. He'd stay with her if she kept it.

Option three, right?

She taps her foot on the tile, glancing over at the timer every so often, waiting for it to finally go off. This is making her feel nauseous, it really is.

It’s Finagle's Law of Dynamic Negatives: _Anything that can go wrong, will—at the worst possible moment._

The timer finally goes off.

Her heart clenches.

She looks.

 _Negative_.

Lydia doesn’t think she’s ever been happier to fail a test.

Lydia’s never even failed a test before.

But now she has and she’s so relieved that she did.

 

* * *

 

Stiles climbs in her window at around 3 am.

He doesn’t say anything.

She doesn’t say anything.

He lays down on the space next to her and curls his body into hers, holding her to his chest like he thinks he’ll slip away if he doesn’t.

Lydia decides not to tell him about the negative pregnancy test stuffed in the bottom of her trash can, underneath the tissues and make-up wipes. She doesn’t want to know his opinions on it. She can’t.

This is what she needs right now. Lydia needs him to hold her because she thinks she’ll slip away if he doesn’t.

She settles herself back against him, feeling his warmth spread across her back, and reminds herself of the math that used to put her at ease.

Certain: Lydia loves Stiles and Stiles loves Lydia.

Probable: The love they have for each other can eventually fix the hole that’s growing between them.

And what’s uncertain?

The possibility of them being okay when they leave Beacon Hills.

 

* * *

 

Certain: They’re not okay when they leave Beacon Hills.

 

* * *

 

They fall back into the rhythm they had started before.

Stiles stays late at the library, at his study group, at work.

Lydia stays late at the library, at the lab, at work.

They talk on the phone sometimes. Mostly texts. Monosyllabic at times. Emojis at others.

 

* * *

 

It works.

 

(It doesn’t.)

 

* * *

 

It’s okay.

 

(It isn’t.)

 

* * *

 

They’re fine.

 

(They’re not.)

 

* * *

 

Using rubbing alcohol on a wound is actually harmful. It can delay healing and damage the tissue while also being painful.

But _consuming_ alcohol to help with an internal, emotional wound is helpful. At least until the next day when it comes back to bite her in the ass.

Still, in that current moment, throwing back shots with people from work, Lydia thinks about how helpful tequila is. It can lower cholesterol, be beneficial for those with diabetes and the word is worth 16 points in Scrabble. She throws back another shot with a smile on her face as she thinks about another way tequila is helpful.

It numbs.

She’s numb.

The ache in her chest is numb.

Tequila helps numb her.

So, she throws back another shot.

Lydia stops after that, when her eyelids start to droop and she wobbles when she stands up. She stays on her stool, half listening to her co-worker’s story about his travels while she texts Stiles to come pick her up. It’s done without looking down at her phone so all she can hope is that it’s at least somewhat coherent. He’ll get the gist of it; he’s Stiles, she’s Lydia and they know each other better than anyone.

The bar top is sticky but she needs to prop her head up with her hand and she needs to rest her elbow somewhere so she ignores the stickiness and focuses on the story she’s being told. She can’t even remember this guy’s name. They’ve worked together for almost six months and all she knows about him is that he collects bottle tops. Lydia doesn’t even know why he collects bottle tops, he probably told her the reason but she’s forgotten, yet it’s the only thing she remembers when she sees him. He’s Bottle Top Guy and Bottle Top Guy is dull with a capital D.

She’s almost thankful when someone’s hand cups her other elbow. Until common sense kicks in and Lydia swerves to reprimand the person attached to the hand.

“It’s time to go,” Stiles states so calmly considering the annoyance she can see growing in his eyes.

“Whoa, dude, you might want to let go of her,” Bottle Top Guy says as Lydia jumps off her stool. If it wasn’t for Stiles’ hand on her elbow, Lydia definitely would have fallen on her ass.

“It’s okay... _Umm..._ ” Lydia searches the recesses of her brain for his name but _Bottle Top Guy_ is flashing in her brain so she giggles, pressing her face against Stiles’ side for a moment while putting an arm around him. “This is my boyfriend: _Stiles_.”

Bottle Top Guy nods slowly before holding a hand out for Stiles. “I’m Wade, I work with Lydia.”

When Stiles doesn’t shake his hand or even acknowledge it, Lydia uses the hand wrapped around his waist to pinch him. He doesn’t jump but he does roll his eyes and shakes Wade’s hand. “Nice to meet you. Lydia, it’s time to go.”

Lydia’s the one who rolls her eyes that time. Still, she nods and waves goodbye to Wade before following Stiles out. Her head is still resting against the side of him, his hand’s moved from her elbow to wrap around her hip, as his other arm holds her handbag. Even though he still seems to be seething with annoyance, his thumb’s rubbing circles into her hips as they weave through the crowds of people in the bar. For a second, they feel like the couple they used to be.

Then the second is over and Lydia’s sitting in the Jeep with her head pressed against the window as Stiles drives them home and they don’t feel like the couple they used to be. He’s not even tapping on the steering wheel like he normally does when he’s annoyed or nervous or jittery because he’s had too much coffee. When he picked her up that night, he still tapped his fingers but it was so quiet.

“Because you didn’t want to wake me up,” Lydia says aloud. She smiles when Stiles glances over at her in confusion then runs her tongue along her bottom lip. “When you drove me home after Danny’s, you thought I was asleep so when you tapped your fingers in time with the radio, you did it softly. You didn’t want to wake me up. I was awake, though. You carried me up the stairs, put me on my bed and then... you put a blanket over me so I wouldn’t be cold.”

Stiles’ eyebrows raise in surprise before he nods his head, his attention going back to the road, and laughs. It warms her soul when she hears it and keeps the smile on her lips. “You were awake and you didn’t even say thank you? God, you really _were_ annoying.”

“I didn’t like you.”

“I didn’t like you either.”

“But you found me a blanket anyway.”

He glances over at her with a smile that she’s sure makes her small heart grow three sizes that day. “Maybe I liked you more than I didn’t like you.”

Lydia doesn’t know what to say to that. She rests her head against the window again but turns it so she can watch him drive. Whenever he meets her gaze and sends her another smile, she wishes she still felt numb.

 

* * *

 

She wakes up the next morning with her legs over Stiles’, his hand resting on her waist to pull her close to him, her hand resting on his arm to keep him close to her. It reminds her so much of other mornings when there wasn’t a hole between them and she doesn’t want to do anything to ruin it. Lydia wants to study it, study him, remember everything about this moment and keep it safe somewhere in her brain so she can remind herself of how it was. They’re hurtling toward their end and there’s nothing that can change that; Lydia wants to remember everything she can because there’s going to be a point when she wakes up and there’s no Stiles because Stiles isn’t there anymore and he’s not hers anymore.

Her hand leaves his arm to cup his cheek before her fingers trail through his hair. His eyes open, a smile gracing his lips as he pulls her closer to him.

This is the first morning in a long time that they’ve been this close. Normally, one of them wakes up early, does everything they have to and leaves before the other one wakes up. Being close to him is a welcome change, especially because she has a feeling in the pit of her stomach that tells her this won’t be a regular occurrence.

In two weeks, they’ll be in Beacon Hills.

In two weeks, they’ll be dancing at his father’s wedding and they won’t be able to avoid that there are more bad days than good with them.

In two weeks, they won’t be them anymore.

Lydia moves forward and kisses him. She kisses him to erase the thoughts that are swirling around in her head. They can’t solidify because if they do, she’ll have to face them.

 _Ignoring_ is bliss.

 

* * *

 

She’s right.

It doesn’t become a regular occurrence.

They fall back into their rhythm.

Stiles stays late at the library, at his study group, at work.

Lydia stays late at the library, at the lab, at work.

They talk on the phone through texts and emojis.

 

* * *

 

It works.

 

(Lie.)

 

* * *

 

It’s okay.

 

(Bigger lie.)

 

* * *

 

They’re fine.

 

(Colossal lie.)

 

* * *

 

Her mom’s house is being tented for termites so she’s staying with her doctor boyfriend for the next few weeks. Lydia doesn’t want to be the third-wheel to that so _she’s_ staying with the Sheriff and Stiles while she and Stiles are in town for the wedding.

She thinks it would have been better to be the third wheel.

There’s this feeling radiating through the house that she knows has nothing to do with the Sheriff’s wedding in the morning. He’s the nicest man she’s ever met, he still loves her like a daughter but since she and Stiles arrived a few days ago, he’s been staring at her with this look in his eyes that she can’t put her finger on. It’s not malicious or angry or curious, just... sad and that’s one of the simplest, heartbreaking adjectives around.

The Sheriff knows.

What he knows and the extent of his knowledge is a mystery to her.

But he knows that there’s something wrong between Lydia and Stiles.

Maybe he can see the spider crack that’s running through their relationship and threatening to shatter at any second; it’s not like they’re not actively trying to hide it.

He doesn’t say anything about it. He just looks at her, gives her soft smiles and tells her and Stiles about his nerves.

“I know the last time you did this, there were dinosaurs roaming in the background and you drove to your honeymoon using that new invention the wheel,” Stiles says, a giant grin pulling his cheeks up when the Sheriff glances over at him in annoyance. “But you’re going to be fine tomorrow. You’re marrying Melissa. You love her so much you didn’t want to jinx your relationship by telling me or Scott before Christmas.”

The Sheriff gives him a sheepish smile. “We told Scott.”

When Stiles flails at the announcement, Lydia’s sure he’s going to take out some of the general items on the table. Instead, he almost falls back on the floor. He saves himself by gripping the edge of the table, scraping the chair legs on the floor.

“Last week, he spent like seven minutes telling me about a cloud he saw and--”

“Didn’t you spend twenty minutes telling him about the pizza we ate last Friday?” Lydia interrupts only to shrug a shoulder when Stiles gives her an incredulous look.

He raises his index finger in her direction. “You put pineapples _and_ pepperoni on the pizza, Lydia. I’m surprised the conversation didn’t last longer. That’s not the point. He tells me about the _dreams_ he has, but he didn’t tell me our parents were dating? I’m calling him.”

Stiles leaves the table in a huff, muttering something under his breath that Lydia can’t catch. She can hear him stomp into the living room and begin pacing. Her attention moves back to the Sheriff, who’s staring at her with that look that tears the hole in her chest just a little bit more. Lydia doesn’t know what to do or say so she taps her fingers against the tabletop.

“I might give Melissa a call. We might not be allowed to see each other until she walks down the aisle but we can still talk,” he says with a laugh as he pushes himself away from the table. The Sheriff begins to walk into the kitchen, only to stop and walk over to her. He rests his hands on Lydia’s shoulders and presses a kiss to the top of her head. “You’ll be alright, kiddo. I promise.”

Her eyes water almost instantaneously but she blinks it away and nods her head. She covers his hands with hers for a moment, until there’s no evidence of her tears, then tilts her head to see him. “Thank you.”

It’s only once he’s in the kitchen dialling Melissa’s number and she can hear Stiles still busy with his discussion with Scott that Lydia disappears upstairs. It’s too early to go to sleep. She’s not even tired. Yet there’s something comforting about ridding herself of the day’s makeup and exchanging her dress for one of Stiles’ old shirts, which is why she finds herself laying on one side of Stiles’ bed. It reminds her of what they used to do after some of their earlier arguments, of those nights when they didn’t want to _not_ sleep in their bed so they slept as far apart as they possibly could. She hates that those were a simpler time.

Lydia stares at her dress that’s hanging on Stiles’ closet door. The one she spent hours shopping for because it had to be perfect. She needed to exude some semblance of normality for the Sheriff and Melissa’s wedding so she let that role fall to her dress and hairstyle and accessories. Lydia fell back into the role she once played, deciding that her appearance needed to show everything she wanted and not everything that she was. But now, she’s wondering if the dress is even good enough. It might be that she’s putting too much pressure on the dress and expecting it to transform into a diamond; it’s just a dress, it can’t work miracles.

She stares at it until it becomes physically painful. That’s when she decides to try to sleep. It’s still early but if she sleeps, she doesn’t have to be consciously left alone with her thoughts.

She drifts in and out, not actually able to fall asleep. The bed shifts as Stiles gets in, which wakes her up. Lydia doesn’t say anything, pretends to be sleeping, while Stiles wriggles around until he’s on the very edge of his side. There’s so much space in the middle of the bed that they probably _could_ fit a giant penguin there but that _would_ be weird.

There’s so much that Lydia wants to say to him. Things that she only wants to stay between them in the confines of this room. Words that she knows she’ll only ever say to him. But they talk too much.

Talking has always been their downfall.

Actions have as well, but talking is what always seems to bite them in the ass.

They talk and things don’t go the way they want them to. For people who know each other so well, they never seem prepared for the other’s response to what they say. Not when it counts.

Lydia rolls over to look at him, taking up some of the space between them as she does. The movement gets his attention and he glances over his shoulder to see her staring at him. Stiles mirrors her movement.

They stare at each other for a while. She knows what they’re doing because she did it only a few weeks earlier. They’re studying each other, trying to remember everything about this moment because they’re hurtling toward their end and there’s nothing that can change that.

Lydia loves Stiles.

And Stiles loves Lydia.

And it’s not enough anymore.

And that tears the aching hole in her chest just a little bit more.

She doesn’t want to feel that. She wants to get rid of that feeling for a moment. She’s grasping for any kind of stability that she can and she wants him to be that stability. Even if it is only for a moment.

So, Lydia moves forward to press her lips against his. It’s to test the waters, see if this is okay. They haven’t had sex in almost three months. They’ve kissed each other, they even made out while drunk at a New Years’ party, but sex hasn’t been a thing for them since the proposal.

Stiles reacts immediately. A hand leaves the space under his cheek to grip her hip and tug her close to him to close the space between them. She’s certain he’s going to leave bruises as his grip on her tightens and that knowledge sets her skin on fire. Her hand moves to the back of his head, tugging on the hairs between her fingers with a pressure to rival the one he’s applying to her hip. He growls against her mouth. It’s this deep, guttural sound that makes her bite down on his bottom lip and tug on his hair a little harder.

It takes some rolling, Stiles almost falling out of the bed and ruining whatever this is with his little yelp, but eventually they find their way to the middle of the bed, with Lydia straddling his waist and pulling her shirt over her head. His hands splay across her back as Stiles sits up and ducks his head down to capture her nipple between his lips. One of her hands reaches back into his hair to grasp it with the same pressure she knows he likes while her other digs into his shoulder, her nails leaving crescent moon shapes in his skin that has him biting down.

He ignores the bucking of her hips, instead choosing to give the same attention to her other nipple and Lydia’s sure her nails have dug so far into his shoulder that she could actually have drawn blood. Stiles doesn’t care, he just continues his assault on her breasts as Lydia continues to rut against him. Her hand leaves his shoulder to trail down his back, nails scraping down his skin, as it does. Her other hand tugs harder on the strands of hair caught between her fingers. He rewards her with a bite to the nipple he has between his lips before he snaps his head up to look at her. His lips are shiny and wet from his own saliva and Lydia wants to capture them between her own.

But then he’s finally paying attention to the wetness between her legs and Lydia's head falls back as he slides two fingers into her. He fucks her with his fingers, the heel of his palm pressing against her clit every other thrust. His other hand goes back to grip her hip, his fingers settling over the marks he left before. Stiles isn’t doing things like he normally does; even when they used to fuck away their fights against the wall, on the floor, on the couch, it was never like this. Every thrust of his fingers feels like he’s trying to punctuate some unspoken statement.

_We’re broken._

_We’re broken._

_We’re so fucking broken._

Lydia pulls her bottom lip between her teeth. She can barely keep her eyes open but she pulls her head back to look at him. Stiles is staring at her with this darkness in his eyes that leaves her breathless. When he curls his fingers just so, Lydia drops her head into the crook of his neck, biting down on his shoulder to muffle the moans she lets out as she comes. Stiles’ fingers continue pumping into her, working her through her orgasm and continuing to punctuate the unspoken statement.

_This doesn’t work._

_This isn’t okay._

_We’re not fine._

_We’re so fucking broken_.

Stiles takes his fingers out of her and runs his tongue along them. Her hand leaves his hair to palm his dick through his boxers, which has him emitting another of those deep, guttural growls. He flips them over, Lydia landing on her back, head hitting the pillows, and pulls her underwear down her legs. Stiles throws them behind him as Lydia tucks her hands into his boxers and tugs them down. She thinks she hears a rip, she thinks they both do, but neither of them care as Stiles kicks them off.

One of his hands moves to hold onto the headboard while Lydia spreads her legs further. When his eyes meet hers, there’s that same darkness in his eyes that left her breathless. It’s then that he sinks into her heat and Lydia’s hand comes to grip the bicep of Stiles’ arm that’s pressing down on the side of the mattress next to her head. Her nails dig in, her legs hook around him and he slides himself deeper inside of her, which has her letting out a little whimper that she can’t help.

They’re trying to stay silent, trying not to wake the Sheriff, but it’s hard. Every thrust feels like Stiles is trying to push deeper, like he’s trying to fill the aching hole between them. Thrust after thrust after thrust, deeper and deeper and deeper, trying to stop the crack that’s spider webbing through their entire relationship. He thinks this can solve everything, maybe he wishes it could, so Lydia lets him because she wishes it could as well. She likes that wishing, that hopefulness that comes from the rough slamming that has the bed hitting against the wall, that pleasure and slight pain that comes when his hand moves from the mattress to grip her thigh instead.

Lydia’s breath stutters when he hits a spot inside her. She looks up at him, her hands reaching up to dig into his shoulder blades and leave her own marks, as he hits it again and again. The darkness is still there in his eyes, his brows furrowed, and he continues to hit that spot. It’s like this is his tequila.

And it has her clenching around him. Her eyes shut of their own accord but she can still feel Stiles’ eyes on her, setting her skin on fire.

_This doesn’t work._

_This isn’t okay._

_We’re not fine._

The hand that was on her thigh moves to circle her clit. Lydia’s hands leave his shoulder to cup his cheeks and she surges up to meet his lips, finding one moment of simple innocent to anchor her before she tumbles over the edge. She takes him with her, his head falling against her collarbone while they ride out the aftershocks. They’re both gasping for breath and holding onto each other like nothing else matters. When Stiles pulls out of her, he takes his hand off the headboard and cups her face instead.

Lydia doesn’t remember the last time he kissed her like that and that’s what rips the aching hole in her chest in a way that she _knows_ isn’t fixable.

 _We’re so fucking broken_.

 

* * *

 

When she wakes up in the morning, Stiles isn’t there. That’s probably a good thing.

She has time to get ready. She can curl her hair, apply her makeup and pull on the dress that can’t work miracles but looks like it can when she stares at herself in the mirror. Lydia stares for a long time, delaying what she assumes will be an incredibly awkward encounter with Stiles. She can hear him in the guest room but it’s only when she hears the string of expletives coming from inside that she decides to face the music. Without even going in, Lydia knows he’s trying to tie his tie. He’s never been able to, she’s always had to help whenever he needed to wear one. She spent an hour trying to teach him but it was like pulling teeth so she decided it would always be easier to do it for him.

Despite that, Lydia stands against the doorframe and watches him struggle. She stands there with a smile until Stiles finally notices her in his mirror and his face of annoyed concentration changes. He looks at her with that smile, the one that could melt a glacier, and Lydia feels her heart swell.

“Holy shit, Lydia,” he lets out, that smile growing as he does. “You look beautiful.”

Lydia blushes, looking down at her feet briefly, before she pushes herself off the doorframe to walk over to him. She slides into the space between him and the mirror and covers his hands with hers. “Why did you even try?”

“Well, you were in there making _this_ happen,” Stiles replies with a motion up and down her body that has her blushing again. “And Dad’s downstairs reciting his vows to the fruit bowl so I thought it was better to do it myself.”

“Did the fruit bowl cry?”

“Blubbered.”

“Did your dad cry?”

“More than he does at the end of ‘Rudy’.”

“Wow, that’s saying something,” Lydia says with a smile as she straightens his tie. “There. Now, you look as beautiful as me.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. He brings a hand up to tuck a loose curl behind her ear. “Not at all possible.”

There’s that nauseous feeling again. The one that settles deep in the pit of her stomach and makes it almost impossible to breathe properly.

Lydia takes her hands off his tie and pats his chest. “I have to go. Malia’s driving me, Kira and Isaac so I have to mentally prepare for that death ride. I’ll see you there.”

And despite her better judgement, Lydia presses a kiss to his lips before she walks out. She can actually feel her heart ache with every step she takes, feeling his eyes watching her as she leaves.

 

* * *

 

So if they were hurtling toward their end, this is it.

This is the final stop.

Lydia’s sitting next to Isaac and Allison in the third row of the church, watching as the Sheriff delivers the vows that made the fruit bowl blubber. It makes sense, though, because she’s on the verge of tears herself. Every sentences seems to settle in her and evoke these feelings that she doesn’t want to feel. She used to have walls and a dragon and moat but now she doesn’t and as the Sheriff recites his vows to Melissa, Lydia finds herself staring at Stiles and finds him staring at her.

“You are my best friend, my partner and the woman I love more than I ever thought was humanly possible,” the Sheriff says with a smile. “There’s no one in the world like you, Melissa, and I’m going to spend the rest of my life respecting and appreciating you the way that you deserve. This I vow to you today and every day until my final breath.”

Lydia tears her eyes away from Stiles when she can feel her heart thumping in her throat. She can barely breathe but she tries, staring blankly at her interlocked hands in her lap. Both Isaac and Allison seem to notice her change, turning their attention to her briefly with curious expressions crossing their faces momentarily before moving back to watch as Melissa and the Sheriff kiss. There’s cheering and Lydia feels everyone in her row standing up so she follows with shaky legs. She can barely feel herself but she knows that she’s clapping along with everyone else.

Her eyes stay on Stiles as he and Scott follow Melissa and the Sheriff down the aisle and out of the church. It’s only when Allison places a hand on her shoulder that Lydia is broken out of her reverie with a shaky breath escaping her.

“Lydia, what’s wrong?” Allison asks, finding her hand and linking their fingers together while they shuffle out of the church with everyone else.

_Everything._

“Nothing,” Lydia replies with a small smile, squeezing Allison’s hand.

 

* * *

 

She sits with Allison, Isaac, Malia, Kira and Danny at a table that’s situated far enough away that she can’t see Stiles unless she cranes her neck. That’s good, though, because the pit in her stomach’s returned and there’s not enough tequila in the world that could quell the ache in her chest. Not being able to see the person she loves is probably the best thing in the world right now. Because she knows what’s coming. They’re not going to talk or admit that they’re having problems because it’s too far now.

 _We’re so fucking broken_.

So, Lydia listens to her friends talk about their lives, she adds comments when they want her to and nods her head at the appropriate times and tries to swallow the lump that starts growing in her throat when the band announces Melissa and the Sheriff’s first dance as husband and wife.

Because soon after, he’s inviting everyone in love out to the floor and more than half her table is empty. Isaac stares at her with the same curious expression he had in the church but tries to hide it while he pushes around his food with his fork. After Lydia takes a drink from the glass she wishes held alcohol, she rolls her eyes and tilts her head to him.

“What?” she snaps.

When he shrugs, Lydia takes his fork from him and tosses it near Danny’s empty plate. Isaac frowns before leaning on his elbow to look at her. “Do you want to dance?”

“Try again.”

“Would you _like_ to dance?”

“Isaac!”

“Fine!” he groans. He sits back against the back of his chair and folds his arms across his chest. “How long have you and Stiles been having problems?”

She does consider lying to him but he’s like a human polygraph when it comes to her. “Since he proposed and I said no.”

“Holy sh--” Isaac begins before having Lydia’s hand clamped over his mouth.

“I haven’t even told _Allison_ that, Isaac.”

She takes her hand off his mouth so she can take another drink and try to get rid of that lump in her throat. Isaac watches her with that same curiosity that is crawling under her skin and making her really want to jam a fork in his hand.

“Do you want to marry him?”

“Isaac, we’re not having this conversation here.”

“Where do you want to have it?”

“I heard your house in Hell recently got redecorated, how about there?”

He smirks and reaches for his own glass. “I had to redecorate, your throne didn’t fit in the other one.”

It shouldn’t bring a smile to her face but it does. She’s about to reply when she feels someone lingering behind her and, by the way Isaac’s expression quickly changes, Lydia can guess that it’s Stiles. As she tilts her head in his direction, she feels the pit in her stomach increase. At this rate, Lydia has a strong belief that it could be classified as a black hole. After all, black holes of astronomical mass are expected to form when very massive stars collapse at the end of their life cycle and her relationship with Stiles is definitely there.

Stiles is smiling at her with the same glacier-melting smile he gave her when she was fixing his tie when she finally meets his eye. “Dance with me, Martin?”

He holds his hand out for her to take, which she does with a smile, then leads her out to the dance floor. The band’s just begun playing another song when they find a space. Stiles pulls her close to him, both hands clasped behind the small of her back, while Lydia wraps hers around his neck. The keys of the piano echo through the reception tent as they begin to sway. Neither of them look at each other. Neither of them can. Maybe Stiles has the same black hole forming in the pit of his stomach.

“ _You are nobody... until somebody loves you_...” the wedding singer croons. “ _You’re nobody ‘til somebody cares…_ ”

Stiles’ hands seem to tighten behind her, pulling her closer to him. That’s when Lydia finds herself looking over to him. “You’re the most beautiful woman in here, did you know that?”

“Stiles...” Lydia says softly.

“No, you are,” Stiles answers in the same soft tone as her before letting out a half-hearted chuckle. “I’ve seen like four guys checking you. So, if you don’t believe me, we can go conduct an experiment. _Stiles bets Lydia that he’s right_.”

She keeps his gaze until the tears welling in her eyes make it impossible. She tries to blink them away but that does nothing except make them roll down her cheeks. Lydia can’t say anything. When she tries, all that escapes is a shaky breath so she doesn’t even try. She just continues swaying to the music. They both continue, not even being able to look at each other anymore.

“We are so fucking broken, Lyds.”

And there it is.

The sign that welcomes them to the last stop.

“ _You know, the world is the same... you'll never change it_ ,” the wedding singer continues. “ _Just as sure... as the stars... shine above..._ ”

They continue to sway slowly, so slow that it barely even seems like they’re moving, when the tempo of the song changes. They probably look ridiculous if there’s anyone watching them but most people are dancing and who’s really paying attention to what’s happening in their small space? It’s not like anyone can sense what’s happening. It’s not like anyone can hear her heart finally shattering into a million, unfixable pieces.

“I love you so much, Lydia Martin,” Stiles lets out with this truly, _broken_ chuckle. She glances back over at him and honestly, she’s sure that the black hole forming in her stomach must have such a strong, gravitational pull that it could consume the fucking Sun. His eyes have a watery glaze that makes her own eyes begin to tear up again. Stiles takes a hand away from her back so that he can run it across his mouth. “But that’s not enough anymore, is it? It can’t fix what’s broken. It can’t save us.”

She’s shaking her head before words have even formed in head. Not coherent words that form coherent sentences. Actually, there’s only one and if her heart hadn’t shattered before, it does when she whispers, “No.”

And Stiles seems to share the same feeling because he nods his head and pulls his attention away from her. He’s staring into the empty space next to them but she can see the tear that falls down his cheek, the way his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows what she can only assume is a lump similar to the one in her throat.

Even though Lydia knew they were heading here, it still hurts like hell. She pulls her arms away from his neck and he pulls them away from her back. They stand there, staring at each other, until she can’t stand it any long. Her gaze moves to the floor while she shakes her head.

“We let it be the thing that broke us,” Lydia states with a soft, watery laugh as tears begin to well in her eyes again.

Stiles doesn’t reply.                                                     

He doesn’t even stop her when she walks away.

Lydia leaves him standing on the dance floor as the wedding singer hits a high note.

Lydia leaves her anomaly as the tears begin to stream down her cheeks.

She leaves him as the final notes begin to play.

“ _So go and look about and find yourself... somebody to love!_ ”

 

* * *

 

It’s not like Stiles assumes Lydia will be there when he gets back to his dad’s house after the wedding. He kind of assumes she’s decided to go see her mom and the new doctor boyfriend and as much as Stiles wants to race over there, he knows he can’t.

He uses his final night in Beacon Hills to prepare himself for what’s about to come. They’ve broken up but they still live together. There’s CDs and DVDs and books to pack up. One of them has to get their own Netflix account. They have to decide who keeps the apartment or if either of them actually want to keep living there. Hell, they own cushions together.

Stiles uses the entire ride back to Stanford to perfect a speech that won’t make him seem heartless but won’t add any extra pain to the decimated remains of his.

It’s going to be hell to see her.

It’s always been hell to see her.

He fucked up and now they’re finally, _actually_ dealing with the consequences of his fuck up.

There had been a plan in place and he had thrown it all away. His perfect, planned to the finest detail plan wouldn’t be able to be used because he had blown it even after Scott had warned him not to.

But... Stiles is always right. That’s how he lives his life. So, he ignored his best friend’s advice and set in motion the end of his own relationship.

When Stiles pulls into his usual parking spot, he takes a moment to prepare himself for what he’s going to be greeted with when he walks into his apartment. He doesn’t know what he’ll do if she’s crying, he’d rather have someone hack off one of his appendages than see her in pain.

He unlocks the front door with the shakiest hand he’s ever had and inhales a deep breath as he pushes the door open. There’s no one there but from the looks of it, Lydia’s already blown through and taken her most valuable possessions before leaving. That’s great, that means he gets to look forward to Allison or Malia or Kira or _Isaac_ or even Scott coming to pack up her stuff for her because she doesn’t want to see him.

 _Awesome_.

Stiles throws his bag onto the couch, which hits the cushions that he hates that he loves, and decides that it’s not too early to drink. He stops in his tracks when he sees the bright blue post-it note on their coffee table. It’s from Lydia, he knows that before he even picks it up, and it makes his heart sink somewhere near his feet.

After he reads it, he doesn't know whether to frame it or burn it.

So, he just leaves it there on the coffee table that they used to put the pizza box on, the same one that Stiles always got in trouble for putting his feet on when he was wearing shoes, the same one that he and Scott had so much trouble carrying up the flight of stairs to the apartment that Stiles tried to convince Lydia that it looked better in the lobby anyway.

Maybe it’s good it stays there, the last tactile reminder of the relationship they shared. There's no memories attached to the piece of paper, only to the words scribbled on it in what Stiles can only assume was written in her haste to leave before he arrived. Only those 12 words. Those 12 words that _officially_ end their relationship:

_Thank you for being the one who picked me up from Danny’s._

**Author's Note:**

> did you enjoy it? I hope you did because this destroyed me to write and I want everyone to enjoy it so much. This made me cry and yeah, I kind of hope it made you feel something as well.
> 
>  
> 
> **A/N (22/6/16): Part 3 is coming soon.**


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